An Ode To Confidentiality

In late February, I believe it was the 22nd, my phone rang. That would be my archaic, touch-tone, caller-ID-infused, non-digital land line. The ID said that the pursuant party was from Company X, for whom I had worked last autumn as a temp. The person on the other end of the line was Steve, the facility manager. He asked me what I was up to, and I replied that I was currently out of work, and still seeking employment. The gist of his text was that James, one of the regulars, was going to be on jury duty for a couple of weeks, and they needed someone to be there to help Clint, his partner-in-crime. It was only a couple of weeks, but it was work -- that pays. Thus, on February 23rd, at 7:00 AM, I was back on the job for " a couple of weeks."

The first thing I discovered is that one of my temp fellows, Tony, was already back there. Tony is a funny, odd, driven fellow. He is the sole owner/operator of a small business called Eternal Caregivers that provides year-long maintenance and things like floral arrangements for deceased loved ones here in East Tennessee. But that doesn't pay as much as it should, so Tony works when he is able to find it. And, as a 28-year veteran of a monstrous soft-drink company (somewhere in L.A.), he is quite familiar with chemicals and chemical-driven processes.

So, for a couple of weeks I helped out in any way that I could. When 14 days was up, there was still a good bit of work laying about to be done, and no one had told me to stay home, so I remained on the job-site and payroll. I performed a goodly number of small "wash jobs," the process for which will have to remain top-secret. I also worked some in the fabrication area, tearing apart spent products for recycling purposes, which I find refreshing.

In the end, I wound up where I always had assumed I would, working with Pal Tony, and Chuck, a chemical engineer whom I had dubbed "Chuckles The Science Clown," back in 2009. I don't know what Chuckles has done in life to warrant the torture of working with a couple of chumps like Tony and me, but it must have been bad.

For the job we were going to perform, there was a lot of new piping, wiring, and setting up to do. Thus, the company hired a father and son team, Randall and Shannon. As far as I can tell -- by trade -- Randall and Shannon are plumbentericians. I make this assumption based on the fact that, no matter what needed to be done, they could do it -- well. Shannon is also a member of the local fire department, which must be handy for them when they have plumbenterician-type work to be done. And even after all of the initial set-up was done, Randall and Shannon hung about, just in case. It's a good thing. I, personally, am not qualified to use a hammer and nail, both in the same day; much too complex.

But soon Tony and I were on the job and in the groove; except, of course, when Chuckles had a question, comment or suggestion. That was always at least a fifteen-minute exchange, laden with scientific theory, molecular divination, and/or philosophical rumination. Chuck loves talking theory, exchanging information and arguing methodology. Had he been a lawyer, he would be heading his own firm by now or dead at the hands of an opposing client.

One of the really fun parts of the job, was the safety gear we had to wear. Any time we were in the main area of labor, we were required to don full chemical-resistant suits, goggles and visors. This was just fine on mornings that were in the forties, Fahrenheit. But when the temperature began approaching the upper sixties, and above, things got a bit uncomfortable in water/chemical repellent togs. We were working one day, and I had planned to stop in a shop on the way home; that is, until I removed my safety gear for lunch. That's when I discovered that I absolutely reeked, and would not be encroaching on anyone's personal space until I'd had a shower or five.

Now, as I said before, I would like to give details about the difficulty and complexity of the work we did, but I am unable, due to the fact that this is a new, confidential procedure, and the folks at Company X are trying their best to keep the competition from learning the hows, whys and wherefores of the process. Suffice it to say that it involved the mixing of chemicals to create various reagents, the use of truckloads of distilled H2O, and the puzzle of working within the space of a postage stamp, such that we had to pass through others' work areas constantly, creating difficulties for everyone at Company X. It also involved the use of a gigantic air compressor and pumps of varying size and type, with all of the requisite piping and connectors that any person with industrial experience would recognize. It was a mess, but it was our mess.

And when we needed something built from metal, we had a secret weapon. Company X has a fabricator who is, as far as I can tell, about twelve years old. But, despite his youth, Mikey can weld anything. and he can make it attractive. No big, ugly welds for him. When he finishes a job, everything is neat, smooth and polished.

Mikey re-engineered a piece for us which had a pipe that was ninety degrees off, and he built us a set of hose racks for the plethora of gigantic hoses that Chuckles had bought for Tony and me to use, move about, and curse.

Chuck, Tony and I brought that job to a close on time and under budget, and I would love to tell you that the company, in glowing appreciation, hired us both as executive VPs. Unfortunately, there's still something of a recession going on, and Company X has not experienced enough growth to hire a couple of know-it alls like Tony and myself. Besides, they still have Chuckles -- and he -- despite his tendency toward elongated discussion, is most likely a tad more valuable than I. So, back on the market I go, an industrial whore in search of a John.

Anybody need a date?

Stupid Advertising -- I

Before I begin, let me state that this will be my second effort at this post, as my fingers got twitchy yesterday and I deleted the original. That's what happens when a T-rex and his tiny upper appendages attempt to utilize modern technology. We also have real trouble with shoulder massages. However, let the reanimation commence.

My good friend, Clint Davis, recently posted on his Facebook page of his frustration with election season and the number of signs and flyers that get posted on public property during this time of madness. His brutal honesty has inspired me to come clean about one of my own pet peeves involving advertising and stupidity. To those of you who are gun-control advocates, let me apologize in advance, and warn that you may not want to read further. If you choose to do so, you may be unhappy with the clear logic of my argument.

A few years ago, a government-funded agency called Project Safe Neighborhoods initiated an advertising campaign, aimed at (this term will seem quirky later in the blog) -- I assume -- young people who watch shoot-em-ups and believe this would be a cool way to conduct themselves. On my way home from my temp job, there are two billboards that are a part of the PSN efforts. On I-40 west, between Papermill Drive and Gallaher View, there is one that reads: Hope you like prison food. GUN CRIME MEANS HARD TIME. Further down on I-75 south, below the Lenoir City exit, is one that reads: No excuses. No Parole. No kidding. GUN CRIME MEANS HARD TIME.

Now, while I agree with the premise of "in general" anti-crime messages, this particular effort has a skewed logic, which I intend to point out and follow to its conclusion. Before I begin, let me state that I am a firm supporter of the 2nd Amendment to the Constitution Of The United States. This states that, "a well-regulated Militia, being necessary to the security of a free state, the right of the people to keep and bear arms, shall not be infringed." Personally, I would -- in this day and age -- add the words, "in a responsible manner" after "arms," but in those days, responsible operation by anyone able to hold a gun without help was assumed.

Also, since this campaign targets a particular inanimate object (can we agree that firearms do not get up and fire bullets into people on their own?), it edges over into a somewhat silly dimensional portal. I am against crime, which I define as: a person infringing upon the rights of another person(s) and/or said person's property. Therefore, let us address the actual message conveyed by the billboards, as opposed to the intended message.

First, let us assume that I am a person of low principle. Let us further say that I need some liquid cash in a speedy manner, and I do not have access in any legal way to said cash. Based purely on the logic of the PSN campaign, I will drive to the local Farmer's Co-Op and purchase a fifty foot, industrial grade extension cord. You know the ones, they're Volunteer orange and about 3/8" in diameter. I will exit the Co-Op, then unpack the extension cord, and roll it up on my arm from elbow to palm.

Next, I drive to my favorite local emporium of alcoholic beverages (I don't know why liquor stores are such popular robbery spots, but they are), and exit my truck -- extension cord in hand. I walk into the store, then begin beating the cashier, head to toe, with my NOT A GUN. I convince the, now malleable store employee that, to prevent further beating, opening the register is a good idea. I remove all of the money from the till, give the poor fellow on the floor a couple more good whacks (remember, I am of dubious character), exit the store, don my truck and drive away.

Now it's possible that I might get away with this crime. However, given the forensic technology of the day, and modern investigative techniques, it is highly unlikely. So we will now assume that the Loudon County Sheriff's Department pays me a visit at home, and I leave with them, wearing shiny metal bracelets.

After a few days, I will be dragged before a criminal court adjudicator for a preliminary hearing. At some point the judge will be moved to quiz me about my choice of weapon for the alleged assault on the poor cashier. At this time, I will drag out the skewed logic of the Project Safe Neighborhoods ad campaign.

"Your Honor, those billboards on the interstate say that gun crime means hard time. Therefore, I expect any time that I serve to be quite lackadaisical."

At this point, His Honor will -- logically -- ask me, "Boy, are you stupid or sump'n?"

Because the use of any inanimate object for the purpose of committing a crime -- gun, extension cord, table lamp, salt shaker -- can land one in prison; federal prison. That's the place where men of lower moral character than myself will avail themselves of all kinds of liberties involving parts of my anatomy that I would rather not have liberated.

Thus, the ad campaign is, as implied by the title of this effort, stupid. The logic is flawed, and the whole concept useless. Because criminals are -- by definition -- optimists. They all believe that they are going to get away. The HBO program "Oz" was a better crime deterrent than the PSN billboards.

Thank you, my chest feels lighter already. Ciao, Baby.